


Sleepless Sounds

by granite



Series: Home Life [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Old Married Couple, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granite/pseuds/granite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras can't sleep and finds he's not the only one. Cuddling and Tickling ensue: proceed with caution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless Sounds

The clock on the bedside table ticks rhythmically. A steady clicking sound that, on most nights, lulled him to sleep. Now, as time passes by, the beat sounds like a drill in his head, a constant reminder of the night passing by.  


Beside him, Grantaire sleeps peacefully, his breathing slow and even. He sleeps on his stomach, his head pressed into the pillow. Enjolras watches him fondly for a few more minutes before lifting himself off the bed quietly, re-tucking the covers around his husband’s sleeping form. He grabs a book from the shelf at random and pads into the living room, carefully shutting the bedroom door.  


He steps blindly through the hallway, swathed in darkness, toward the living area. He avoids the corners and edges detailed in his mind after almost twenty years of living in the house and finds the couch. He falls onto it, stretching easily over the cushions and feels his way up the lamp to turn it on.  


It emits a dull orange light too bright for his eyes, having spent the last few hours in pure black, and he squints as he adjusts to the sudden change. He focuses on the book he brought, an old, battered copy of The Fountainhead. He opens it and reads the introduction, a lovely foreword by Leonard Peikoff and then Ayn Rand herself. Scanning over it, he smiles at the rough scribbling in the margins.  


He focuses on the first chapter, stopping every few minutes to thoroughly read Grantaire’s side comments. It is his husband’s favorite book, and no one can deny how incredible it is, but he finds himself more fascinated with the notes. They are comprehensive, even systematic in the way there’s a question and then a short answer and reference to another page or another book in a new pen.  


To him, it feels like searching through Grantaire’s mind. He knows the writing is from very long ago, but it doesn’t matter, and he reads every bit he sees alongside the text. Half an hour later, when soft footsteps sound in the hallway, he is too invested in the analysis to notice.  


“Dad?” Her voice is only a whisper, but he startles.  


She looks guilty, when he raises his head, surprised. He sets the book down, marking the page with a pencil someone left on the end table. He shifts his body so he sits with his back pressed against the corner and his legs still sprawled across the couch horizontally.  


He motions with his hand, resting on the arm of the sofa, for her to come. She crawls onto the sofa next to him, holding her knees in her arms and rests her head against his chest. He curls his arm around her shoulders and she sighs.  


“You alright?” He asks quietly, and she can feel the low vibrations on top of his heartbeat.  


“Couldn’t sleep. You?”  


“Me either.”  


She hums understandingly and they fall silent, the only sound in the room is soft breathing. She breaks the easy silence a few minutes later, when the stillness begins to feel too serene.  


“What were you reading?”  


He shifts, unhooking his arm from around her to grab it from the end table and let her take it. She runs a finger over the title, turning it around in order to read the back. She opens it at random and notices the markings, flipping through it to confirm their presence on every page. She traces the words in the margin lightly.  


“Are these yours?”  


“Your father’s.” He corrects.  


She reads through a few of the margins quietly, turning pages and skimming casually. Without closing the book, she gives it a small smile.  


“Sometimes I forget how smart he is.”  


He rests his jaw against the top her head and hums. “Most people do.”  


“It looks so old, too.”  


“It’s probably older than you.” He grins, and adds “Way before we were old men.”  


She laughs, and it shakes him slightly. “I can’t imagine you two so young anymore.”  


“This is his favorite, you know. I think he’d be excited if you wanted to read it.”  


He squeezes her shoulders slightly and she shifts, burying her face in the crook where his lifted arm meets his shoulder and throws an arm across his stomach.  


“Read it to me.” She mumbles, her words muffled. Then adds, “Don’t leave out papa’s writing.”  


He smiles at her fondly, prying the book from her fingers with his free hand and opening to the first page.  


“Howard Roark laughed. He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable. The stone—flowing.” He cuts from the narrative. “Your father says Roark represents the fluid stone, because he is absolute and unwavering, but flowing willingly with the tide of society through every precipice.”  


He continues the narrative, stopping to recite his husband’s thoughts. Having read this part already, just before Olivie came in, he delights instead in watching his daughter’s expressions. Her faint smile where Grantaire has written something particularly witty or full of prose.  


He reads, and her amused breaths at her father’s sarcastic remarks become fewer and far between. When he finally notices, her breath has evened out, a constant stream of warm air across his chest. He continues the story silently, trying to imagine Grantaire sitting alone, his face still a smooth olive color, probably chewing on the end of his pen while he scrutinizes his favorite novel. He lets the image sit at the back of his mind as he turns each page, reads each scribble, until his eyelids droop heavily and the arm stilling the book feels like lead. One more chapter, he thinks, then sleep.  


**  


Grantaire opens his eyes blearily. He blinks rapidly a few times against the light shining brightly through the window. He rolls to face away from the source, content to bury his face in his husband’s neck and wrap his body around the blonde’s. Instead, he reaches cold sheets that house no warm body but his own. Frowning, he rubs his eyes, scraping of the sleep, and turns his attention toward the desk. He assumes Enjolras would be working, if he stumbled out of bed so early. The solid wood oak is untouched, every detail immaculate with no item out of place.  


He throws the sheets up and climbs out, sliding the door open and heading out. He feels groggy, so he almost passes the living room right by on his way to the kitchen. He catches sight of golden hair and whirls around, spotting his husband slumped on the couch. Beside him, Olivie snores lightly, her head resting against Enjolras’ chest where he’s positioned on his side against the back of the couch, blonde curls cascading over the armrest. He has an arm trapped under his daughter, who has her own arm wrapped across his waist.  


Shuffling quietly back into his room, he returns with his cell phone and snaps a few pictures. He sends it in a mass message to all their friends and remembers to include Enjolras and Olivie. He’s about to proceed into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee when he notices the book trapped between their stomachs. When he takes a few steps closer to investigate, he beams at the battered old copy of his number one book. He remembers, briefly, laying on the couch in his old apartment during college for a few days straight with a few bottles of wine and penning his every thought into any space he could find.  


In the kitchen, he pulls out the organic coffee beans Enjolras insists on and attempts to feed himself caffeine as soundlessly as possible. Of course, that means when he sets his mug down on the corner of the bar, he knocks it over with an elbow and it crashes onto the floor. He curses to himself and drops to his knees, sweeping the broken ceramic into his palm.  


Tossing the pieces into the trashcan, he hears a shifting in the living room. The gentle sound of shuffling on carpet and then his daughter appears around the arch, her dark hair, as raven black as Grantaire’s once was, mussed from sleeping.  


“Papa?”  


“Mornin’ sunshine.” He smiles, turning toward her.  


“Good morning.” She replies, her voice still thick with sleep. She trudges into the kitchen, pulling a mug from the cupboard and pouring herself coffee.  


“Sleep well?”  


“Too restless, but I came out and dad read to me.”  


He smiles at the mention of it, and it’s so cheerful she can’t help but return with one herself.  


“Yes, I saw. How did you like the book?”  


“It’s wonderful, really. I’d like to finish it.”  


“Feel free. I’m sure there are at least two more copies in the library.”  


She shakes her head. “I want to read that one, with your writing in it.”  


He grins and slides from the chair, walking around the bar to envelop her in a hug that she happily returns. He pulls away, keeping a hand on her forearm and moving the other to tuck a strand of loose hair behind her ear.  


“I don’t know which I liked better, the story or your comments.” She admits.  


“Keep it then. It deserves a new home.” He smiles again, fondly.  


She laughs lightly. “Well, I won’t turn down free books.”  


He taps her nose with a finger and returns to the bar, stepping around her to put his mug in the sink. He looks through the archway to his husband and sighs.  


“I ought to move him to the bedroom.”  


She looks at her father on the couch and giggles. “He’s going to murder you.”  


He scoffs playfully. “How could he? Your father doesn’t believe in capital punishment.”  


“Good luck!” She chirps  


“I don’t need luck, I have sheer willpower and the force of _love._ ”  


Grantaire skips into the room before she can reply and climbs on top of Enjolras not so gently, pinning his hands in place above his head and pressing wet kisses to his face to wake him up. Once his eyes open, however, he doesn’t stop. The blonde tries to hide his smile, morphing his face into the most pitiful excuse for a scowl while he struggles to get out Grantaire’s grip. A laugh escapes him and the dark-haired man bites his jaw, moving up to his cheek and blowing a raspberry.  


“Lord are you dead weight!” He complains, the first words he’s spoken since waking.  


“Well now,” He replies, sarcasm practically dripping from his voice. “How _rude_. Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?”  


“At least _my_ mother didn’t raise a bear.”  


“Insults, Enjolras? You better stop with those.”  


“Or else?”  


Grantaire pushes himself up, stopping his stream of kisses and smiles mischievously. Enjolras stops struggling, laying slack below his husband and looking into his eyes. He leans down and gently presses his lips to the blonde’s mouth, who smiles into the kiss. He slides the hand not gripping his husband’s wrists down his side and Enjolras hums.  


Pulling back, he looks down and his heart warms at the sight of the man, cheeks pink from laughing and lips parted.  


“Or else?” His lips twitch up, repeating the blonde’s earlier question. He wiggles the fingers pressed against his stomach and his eyes widen.  


“Oh no.”  


From the kitchen, Olivie watches them laugh and spots Grantaire’s phone on the counter. She unlocks it with a slip of her finger and pulls up the camera, taking a picture. She pulls up the messages app and notices the group photo sent ten minutes ago, already swarming with about fifteen replies. She rolls her eyes when she opens it, seeing her and her father curled up on the sofa. Before she adds the one she’s just taken, she hears a loud squeal from the living room and spins around. Grantaire still has Enjolras’ hands pinned but now he’s tickling him. Her father is gasping, laughing so hard she thinks she sees tears streaming from the corner of his eyes and she raises the phone and replaces the photo from earlier with that one.  


Setting it back on the counter, she walks back toward her room, leaving them to it. On the way, Grantaire catches her eye and winks, leaning back down to raspberry his husband’s neck this time and the man wheezes, giggling in between every breath. She backtracks, slipping by the couch and grabbing the book, now resting on the floor.  


Once in her room, the faint sound of her fathers’ laughter emanating into her room, she falls onto the bed and opens the book, flipping through the pages to pick up where she left off before falling asleep. Looking at the notes, she smiles. It’s hard to reconcile the man just outside her door with the man intelligent enough to write all this. She thinks she understands, briefly, that her father’s good natured and silly personality never made him any less sharp than his serious and idealistic counterpart. And that’s exactly, she thinks, why they’re perfect for each other.

**Author's Note:**

> This should have been up yesterday, then Thursday Night Black Friday happened. Well, Happy Thanksgiving anyway! Feel free to make my day with comments and questions and prompts if you have any.
> 
> The quote Enjolras reads is the sole ownership of Ayn Rand, taken from The Fountainhead (Which I recommend 10/10).


End file.
